Green sears into red,
slough summer bleeds into Fall –
framed season’s etched ridge.
Slowly smoking red
stains the corners of picture –
time’s brushed memory,
a moment smeared perfectly,
touch the rough edges, cut, bleed.
We had an appointment in Sudbury. The road and time stretched ahead, the minutes piled up with the line of vehicles waiting to take a turn – road construction built up the flow of seconds.
In a pause of motion, an early bit of Fall colour waited at the road side for the season to catch up.
When I was younger, I was not as old, my travel bag carried fewer memories –
leaves turn red, now Fall –
at the side of the road waits
a moment recall’d.
Read with care these words written on the memories of trees. Get to the root of meaning as you leaf through thoughts obscure, spoken in the tongue of dreams.
How like a feather –
thoughts unfurl over night sky,
can you hear them now ?
It is not an example of a tree.
What can i do;
They like it.
Our stalks do not overwhelm the essential needs of forest breezes.
Bothering to give up deforestation, learning what is really attractive –
however, in the end, some governments now have “it” as a major part of the grid.
We offer the opportunity to share problems.
To find out,
Go to the other side of your bark.
Some of the land stirs –
lifting up its green fingers,
writes down year’s circle.
Clouds wash away cares –
now dry broken promises,
moist with sad regrets.
Born nearby, she takes water off for a part of surrender.
Tomorrows branch out –
lines twist , soft words drip down,
thirsty roots drink thoughts.